


Showstopper

by CountingWithTurkeys



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F, Mind Games, Suggestive Themes, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountingWithTurkeys/pseuds/CountingWithTurkeys
Summary: Princess Day is supposed to be a time to catch up with old friends, entertain potential suitors, and forge new alliances. It isn't supposed to rack up a body count. The good news? This year will be different. The bad news? Princess Bubblegum isn't going to like why.
Relationships: Princess Bubblegum/Marceline
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	Showstopper

**Author's Note:**

> Real talk: Wow, it's been awhile since I wrote a new story, huh? I've had this idea for awhile, but couldn't decide how I wanted to craft it. For those of you who are new to my writing, please be aware that all of my stories exist within a single continuity, the Symphony Universe, and as such they're all interconnected and tend to be self-referential. As the Symphony Universe is embedded within the overarching Adventure Time timeline it's entirely possible to figure out where each of my stories come in, but there's also a cheatsheet in my profile.
> 
> Content Warnings:
> 
> Mind Games  
> Suggestive Themes (nothing explicit)

She was hiding in the rafters.

Was Princess Bubblegum surprised? Absolutely not. It was tradition by this point. How long had the older woman been pulling this little stunt? Two hundred years? Three hundred? Did it matter? It was a dance by now, an old song, and like any old song it stuck with you whether you wanted it to or not. Should Princess Bubblegum have predicted this pattern of behavior? Yes, and she did. She knew it would happen, but like every year, she assumed  _ this  _ time it would be different,  _ this  _ time the vampire would be a reasonable woman. It was a delusion, it was all for naught, and it didn’t change that Marceline Abadeer was hiding in the rafters of the Candy Kingdom castle’s Great Hall. There were plenty of places for the half-demon to hide, of course, even if she wasn’t invisible and conspicuously pretending not to exist. She just liked knowing that Princess Bubblegum knew, fed off of her annoyance.

It was an event, an important event, one that was planned with care and would be executed precisely. Princess Day. Even the name of the event caused the candy golem to smirk. Such a mediocre name hid how vital the event really was. It was the day the young scientist graciously invited the ruler matriarchs of Ooo to gather in a celebration of their power and prosperity. It was a day meant to exchange stories and boast of their kingdoms’ accomplishments, meant to cement the bonds between kingdoms and monarchs alike. A day to swap stories. A day to gossip.

But more than anything it was a day for Princess Bubblegum to silently display her power, her ability to call the rulers of Ooo to her territory with only an invitation to bask in her presence. Every year a princess would bid for the event’s venue to change hands, for another kingdom to host, and every year Princess Bubblegum would shoot down the invitation with a flick of her wrist and honeyed words. No, it would not stand for Princess Day to take place anywhere but in her own territory, for it was a rule of diplomacy that the one to approach was the one in the weaker role. By the very nature of her cohorts’ attendance she was demonstrating how powerful her kingdom was and thus how powerful  _ she  _ was. More importantly, though, there was just something unsettling about not being on home turf. It made them at her mercy. After all, the Candy Kingdom had particular customs and rules, and her fellow monarchs could never hope to interpret them all. All they could do was follow her lead.

It was an unspoken rule that if you held a position of power you would attend Princess Day. To not attend was not only a slap in the face of the host it was an insult to fellow princesses. It was as if to say that you had more important things to do, and what could be more important than catching up with old friends? Or, in this case, rival kingdoms. But there was another reason everyone always attended the Day, why the princesses themselves always came in lieu of sending an envoy or stand-in, and that was another unspoken rule as well. It was why royals were expected to arrive the night before the festivities, to enjoy a feast prepared by the Candy Kingdom’s top chefs, to drink their fill of wine and then retire to their assigned chambers, all strategically chosen, of course. It wouldn’t due to have friendly kingdoms stationed near one another. They may get ideas to meet in secret and plan for the next day. Princess Bubblegum couldn’t have that, now could she?

Princess Day itself consisted of two parts. In the morning every princess of Ooo would gather in what Marceline had once dubbed the ‘war room’, a crude but apt name. They would sit in their little brown chairs circling the large round table while Princess Bubblegum herself would seat herself in an elaborate lavender and royal purple mosaic throne. In the morning every princess would begin greeting one another amicably enough, but it would soon descend into serious discussions. Trade agreements, grievances, accusations, every emotion and thought that had festered throughout the year would bubble to the surface. Comments would begin civil enough, but then Princess Bubblegum’s cohort were hardly the types to remain civil for long, and as host it was her duty to mediate between them. Not to declare decisions, but to control the situation before it became chaos. She would remind them of their stations, that everyone in the room had to share all of Ooo and it was thus in their best interests to at the very least tolerate one another. And every year they would thank her, genuinely thank her, for her insight.

Of course, Princess Bubblegum wasn’t immune to the discussions. Of course some concerns or complaints were levied against her, but having mastered strict control of herself the candy golem never gave into the temptation to lash back. Some requests she acquiesced to, others she deftly parried. It was about the little things, giving in to the inconsequential in such a way that her counterparts felt good about, as if they had won something, some battle of wits. They didn’t, but she found it charming how easily they deluded themselves.

The first part of Princess Day consisted of the inane and the trite, but it was all necessary. It was cathartic at the very least, and it assured that the kingdoms of Ooo remained in harmony. It was also the perfect method to keep tabs on who was allied with who, who was trading what and for what, and take stock of whatever rumors were floating around, particularly about Princess Bubblegum herself. It allowed misunderstandings to be cleared, for irritations to be soothed, for treaties to be cemented, and so as tedious as it was it was a necessary evil. By the end of the meeting everyone felt better and the state of Ooo would be secure for another year. At that point every princess would retire to her chamber temporarily and prepare for the second half of the event.

This was the part everyone looked forward to: the ball. Now any envoys or delegates invited to attend a princess would be granted access to the castle. This was diplomacy of an entirely different sort, not crafted with parchment and pen but with something more… personal. After all, the easiest way to truly cement an alliance between kingdoms was with a marriage pact, and given that every ruler of Ooo was female every guest was an eligible male, all happy to ogle the most powerful of women and their attending nobles, many of whom were eager to find a husband. Because it was expected for these envoys to sweep a princess off her feet, great care was taken by every kingdom to target the most likely - or most promising - ally and select a potential suitor to her taste. Objectively speaking, it was mutually beneficial; a princess or her noble attendants would find a worthy consort, and in return their kingdoms would align, not exactly merging into one but tied nevertheless, bound to share power and privilege alike. It was a night of what Princess Bubblegum supposed counted as romance, of statecraft of a whole new sort.

Although the candy golem had taken great care to separate her personal life from her role, for she was a private person thank you very much, it hadn’t taken long for the gossip to reach her ears, the observation that she would entertain a paramour for the evening, but never choose one for a courtier. It was bizarre, baffling every ruler and noble of every kingdom. She would be amicable enough, of course, unfailingly polite to those who tried to ingratiate themselves to her, but the result never wavered. No matter who they sent, no matter the type, she would dance with and then reject them all, not even entertaining the idea of choosing him for something greater. 

Despite the rumors, it was positively laughable that Princess Bubblegum was a fan of this lip service. She was toeing a fine line, she knew, between encouraging this behavior and not insulting her fellow matriarchs by outright rejecting their chosen men, maintaining her privacy without insulting the attempts to get closer to her that would inevitably fail by design. For hundreds of years her policy was ‘grin and bear it’, but every year this policy became riskier, for at least two reasons she could think of. One highly professional, the other highly personal. She had tried to maintain the status quo, to pretend nothing was amiss, but like all good things even this scheme had to come to an end. A century ago, after a potential suitor was found injured, mangled but alive, she knew she had to change her strategy and ‘let slip’ that she had no attraction to men, hoping that would be that.

They sent women instead.

The attacks only got worse. No one was ever hurt within the borders of her kingdom or her territories, nor was anyone ever killed, but there was a distinct pattern of behavior that even she could not hide from the public: after every Princess Day, when guests began the journey home, some party would be attacked before making it to the sanctuary of their borders. Whatever did it was animalistic and vicious, but seemed to have no inclination to mutilate any specific kingdom’s Very Important People. Instead the injured party was always one who sent someone to win Princess Bubblegum’s heart. All others would be spared, and the message seemed clear, at least to the logical princess: leave Princess Bubblegum alone, or suffer the same fate. Not that it stopped them from trying. After all, Ooo was full of wondrous but dangerous creatures, and given that Princess Bubblegum was just as disgusted - if not more - as her guests she was quickly absolved of any potential guilt. Without a clear guilty party it was considered an unavoidable tragedy every year, because few things could ever rival the powers of willful ignorance and wishful thinking. Which meant they would still send suitors, still try to woo her and sweep her off her feat. Every year.

_ They  _ may not know the cause of the attacks, but Princess Bubblegum wasn’t so ignorant.

Like every year, the Candy Kingdom’s Great Hall was decorated lavishly in a display of taste and poise. Each lavender wall sported every kingdom of Ooo’s respective banner, a display representing Princess Bubblegum’s warm welcome and good tidings to her guests. Not a single thread was out of place. The braziers were lit along the walls, the flames dancing invitingly. The band was performing last minute maintenance of their instruments and finalizing their music selections. Before each chair Peppermint Butler had assured a healthy supply of quills, ink, and parchment, each nameplate hand carved in a rainbow alloy of the princess’s own creation. The tasting menu had been sampled and approved. The rooms were prepared to every princess’s specific requirements, every reasonable request adhered to. Her staff was at the ready, the more private areas of the castle secured. Everything was perfect.

Except for the vampire hiding in the rafters.

Princess Bubblegum was a patient woman. Every word, every gesture was placed with precision, every action done with purpose. She stood in the Great Hall, observing the preparations, observing until her patience finally ran out with her hidden onlooker. Marceline would never dare reveal herself, not here, not now. She was a rash woman who wore her heart on her sleeve and acted as if that was something to be proud of, but she both knew the rules and respected them, at least to the extent her princess required of her. True, the candy monarch held no official dominion over the vampire; she was her own woman and a queen besides, an equal in the eyes of international law. Yet official power was, quite happily, not everything. There was an even greater power at play, an advantage only the scientist could ever possess over the vampire, and thus over the situation. 

Under the guise of examining every inch of the hall Bonnibel Bubblegum looked up, straight into the spot she knew her spectator was watching from. After so many years - centuries even - the pair were capable of having an entire conversation with a single raised eyebrow and shifting glance, even if one of the couple just so happened to be invisible. A quick dart of her piercing green eyes and a soft sigh was more than enough for the half-demon to know what was expected of her. She would follow through. She always did.

At her side Peppermint Butler made some disapproving noise the princess didn’t care for but couldn’t reasonably fault him for. So she unreasonably faulted him for it inside. He didn’t hide his disapproving ‘tsk tsk tsk’, but made sure it was a volume only his creator could hear. As Princess Bubblegum’s most loyal servant, and one of her greatest and first successful creations, he knew exactly what was triggering his mistress’s tense demeanor, and it had little to do with the upcoming hoopla. He may have been created well after Marceline had somehow, bafflingly, won his creator’s heart but he knew the effects the blackguard had on her. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He only hoped that this time,  _ this  _ time, his princess would finally expel her once and for all. Or banish her to the dungeons. Both were good. “Will you be retiring to your rooms to prepare, Your Majesty?”

Yes, the major domo of the Candy Kingdom was well-aware of the dance the two monarchs engaged in, had engaged in for so very long. He disapproved but was a loyal, obedient servant and would never dare say anything against the situation, or the vampire. Not now, anyway. Not in public. Not in a language anyone other than his mistress understood. He was blessed with intelligence and made good use of it. Exactly as he was designed.  _ If only everything were so cooperative,  _ Princess Bubblegum thought to herself bitterly. “Yes, Pep. It seems you have everything under control here.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Will you be meeting the visiting princesses this evening?”

It was a polite inquiry, but an unnecessary one. It would be terribly bad form for a hostess not to greet her guests, especially for an event as important as this one. Still, Peppermint Butler was her most loyal subject and second oldest friend. He knew it wretchedly improper to make any assumptions at all about his mistress, especially today. Their relationship may be relaxed, even friendly most of the year. Today? Today Princess Bubblegum couldn’t risk feeding whatever gossip she would inevitably have to contend with this year.

Speaking of which.

“Yes. Alert me when the sentries spy the first visitors. No one is to be allowed into the Great Hall without my leave.”

He knew all of this, didn’t need to be told it, but nodded at the command. He knew his mother would be on edge for at least the next week, until all of her guests had returned from whence they came, all rumors and gossip had been laid to rest, and, above all, she knew the extent of the damage her feral pet would certainly cause and how much damage control would be required of her. He admired her patience. He did not envy her situation. He did, however, bite his tongue; now was not the time to remind her that this was a fine opportunity to choose anyone,  _ literally anyone  _ else as her consort. Even if he was right. “Certainly, Your Highness. Shall I send a handmaid to help you prepare for the evening?”

“No.” There was ice in that curt denial, and he thanked the dark powers that be that he was not the origin.

“Very good.” And then, under his breath, “Good luck, Your Grace.”  _ Grab her by her pointed ear and- _

“Thank you, Pep. That will be all.” 

And then she was gone, through the doors which slammed behind her unintentionally. No one paid it any mind, too wrapped up in their own tasks and duties. Peppermint Butler frowned after her, resisting the urge to scowl. Such an expression did not fit a mint of his station, and he took the faith his liege placed in him with deadly seriousness.  _ Stop trying her patience, you ungrateful fiend.  _ At least in his mind he didn’t need to hide his acrid tone.

Princess Bubblegum didn’t relax as she made her way down the hallway that connected the Great Hall to the rest of the castle. She paid no mind to her servants, who gave brief but respectful bows before going about their assigned tasks. She gave no attention to the festive decorations; the immaculately straight banners representing every kingdom that was or had ever been, the rich tapestries that traced Ooo’s history, the candles whose flames flickered all manner of colors that should not be possible, not possible except for a princess who bent the laws of physics like child’s play. 

Though it was not in the scientist’s nature to be trusting this was an event that came every year, and her staff, her children, knew what was expected of them and how the next couple of days would play out, and she had full faith in her butler’s ability to direct them in her absence.  _ Everyone will arrive tonight, saddled with gifts to express their appreciation at being thought of. They will retire to their assigned chambers. Tomorrow morning we will meet to discuss business, then adjourn for the afternoon. In the evening each eligible princess will be presented for the royal ball. Those who do not leave after the festivities conclude will stay a night longer and depart in the morning.  _ That was a particularly irksome change to the event’s schedule of events; someone too smart for their own good had noticed that the attacks, while still prevalent, were less likely to occur during the day. How could the candy golem begrudge them an extra night’s stay in the name of safety? She couldn’t. Not without arousing suspicion anyway.

Even as she passed into the more private areas of her castle Princess Bubblegum did not relax. Her subjects may have labored under the delusion that she was retiring to her own rooms for some much needed peace and quiet before all of her and more was demanded by rival and friendly kingdoms alike, but then they didn’t know the real Bonnibel Bubblegum, did they? No, the young monarch had more work, more attention to be siphoned off of her before her guests arrived and she had to play a deranged combination of hostess and babysitter. Her nose wrinkled at the very idea. It wasn’t that she disliked Princess Day - misguided suitors not withstanding - but she was so very, very tired of needing to play keeper to what went bump in the night while pretending to be as enthralled with her colleagues’ mediocre lives as they were. Was it so much to ask to have a single Princess Day without needing to draft some correspondence condemning some attack, without engaging in a litany of ‘oh yes, dreadful business, that attack’ and ‘oh dear me, how awful!’? Was she being unreasonable in expecting her queen to contain her bloodlust, to either curb her natural tendencies or recuse herself from the situation so she was not tempted to indulge?

But then, Marceline Abadeer could never resist temptation, and much like a pesky housecat she had a nasty habit of turning up underfoot, exactly where she could do the most damage. Were she anyone,  _ anyone,  _ else Bonnibel would have banished her from her kingdom entirely, and not just for the duration of the event. Unfortunately, such solutions were impossible in this case, personally because against Peppermint Butler’s better judgment she was in love with the older woman, and professionally because though she disliked being reminded of it the vampire was a legitimate monarch, whose status as a queen and the heir to the Nightosphere was a matter of public record. To banish her would be grossly improper, to do so for personal reasons doubly so, even if it was in a valiant attempt to keep the princess’s guests safe.

No good deed goes unpunished and all that.

Not that the older immortal ever attended. Marceline liked to posit that Princess Day was too ‘stuffy’, too ‘not her scene’, that she had better things to do than engage in ‘boring junk’ when she was a queen and a rockstar besides. Really, though, it was because attending would inhibit her ability to hunt down the suitors who dared to present themselves to Princess Bubblegum; the celebration was a formal affair, and the musician seemed wholly incapable of making herself presentable. Whether it was frustration or mercy, she didn’t see fit to put her lover in a position to banish her until she came back in proper attire. Still, the invitation remained because it had to, even if her seats during both halves of the event remained perpetually empty. It would raise too many questions and foster too much gossip if they became absent just because she never took Ooo’s royalty up on their invitation to join them in trite banter. Appearances were, and would always be, everything, for monarchs were all about ritual and tended to panic easily at the slightest alteration.

Princess Bubblegum was about to engage in a ritual of another kind, her annual warning to her lover to just stay out of the way, not because Bonnibel didn’t love her but because, indeed, quite the opposite. She wasn’t a fool, she knew that it hurt her queen to know that the candy golem was legally obligated to entertain the idea of a paramour, even if she would inevitably reject them. Demons, even half-demons, were single-minded and possessive, and Bonnibel wasn’t blind in the knowledge that it wasn’t entirely Marceline’s fault that she reacted with hostility; such behavior was acceptable in the Nightosphere, and though she was not a dedicated resident the pocket dimension was still her’s by birthright, and it was an instinct passed from father to daughter genetically.  _ Regardless, she is willfully subjecting herself to this when she could spend a couple of days at home entertaining herself.  _ So yes, Princess Bubblegum was sympathetic to her girlfriend’s plight, but not enough to put a stop to hundreds of years of tradition. Instead she would do what she did every year: try to reason with the unreasonable.

The moment she closed the door to her room it became apparent that something was different. Off-script. Oh, the room itself hadn’t changed. Spotless lavender stone floor. Immaculately made bed. Cheery fuschia puffy plants. Unmarred rose pink stone walls. Her wardrobe stood proud as it always did, her steel lab table was untouched, her rug unruffled and straight, what few sentimental knick-knacks she’d collected over the years sat on her dresser, just as they always did. Nothing was out of place. Not a single thing out of place.

Except for the metal transport cart, the two domed plates flanking the green bottle nestled in a bucket of ice, and the vampire lounging on the aforementioned immaculately made bed with a pewter goblet in her hand. Red boots were tucked to the side, next to the nightstand Marceline had made her own decades ago. On it sat a book plucked from Bonnibel’s own bookshelf - she would recognize the cover anywhere - with Marceline’s bass poking out just over it from where it leaned against the side. As the princess closed the door to her room, never taking her eyes from the older woman, the demon wriggled the fingers of her free hand playfully, smirking in delight at her mate’s clear ire. “Hello, Bonnibel,” she purred. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hey Marceline,” Bonnibel deadpanned. This was new, this was unexpected, and oh how Bonnibel Bubblegum hated when things were unexpected and contrary to her plans. No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. She was supposed to come into her room where the singer was supposed to be pretending she didn’t exist, invisible and inconspicuous and silent. Bonnibel was supposed to summon her front and center, they were supposed to argue about whether Marceline was spying on her, observing preparations for the festivities and fuming in anticipation and misplaced indignation, that possessive streak both women shared tried yet again by something stupidly inconsequential, if only the older woman could see that. They were supposed to fight, supposed to make up, supposed to enjoy a quiet - or loud, depending on their mood - evening together, both to reaffirm their commitment to one another and work out some of those charged emotions in a more fun, healthy manner. Then, in the morning, Bonnibel was supposed to give her a kiss goodbye and wait for the inevitable fallout of that evening or the morning after, when Peppermint Butler sighed, tutted, and told him which kingdom she would need to send flowers and well-wishers to. Then she was supposed to go home and drag the guilty queen front and center, give her wayward lover a stern talking to, they were supposed to fight again, make up again, and then wait another year for the cycle to repeat.

This? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Prep is going pretty well for everything this year, huh?” 

Marceline’s smirk was knowing. She wasn’t even dressed how she was supposed to be dressed, in her normal casual attire. No, she was wearing black slacks and a black and red blouse, patterned to give the illusion of pathwork if not something entirely more violent and distasteful. It wasn’t an outfit Bonnibel immediately recognized, but that would have to wait, taking a back seat to something even more bizarre: there were two goblets of wine, the ice bucket was fresh, and there was the unmistakable aroma of food wafting from under the domes.  _ You planned this.  _ Piercing green eyes darted from the tray to the clearly amused garnet ones of the only woman she would ever love.  _ Let’s see where you’re going with this.  _ “It is. I’m pleased to say that we’re ahead of schedule and well within the allotted time frame to prepare to welcome the visiting dignitaries.”

Marceline grinned. It wasn’t a mischievous expression, or even an ironic one. It seemed almost sincere as the queen patted the spot next to her. Bonnibel’s side of the bed. “Rock. Come on, Bon. You gotta be hungry, and I made you dinner.” The candy golem raised an eyebrow, this time granting a longer look at the twin domes, the awaiting goblet so clearly meant for her. “I even got you a bottle of The Good Stuff from the cellar. It’s your favorite,” she sang. The younger woman’s look was defined by its evident mistrust and the vampire rolled her eyes before settling her own goblet on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, even using her pinky to muffle the sound. With a knowing chuckle she floated off the bed, but rather than scoop her paramour up and gracelessly deposit her in her rightful spot, as would be her typical course of actions, she landed before her, even standing. “Aw, what’s wrong, Bon? Don’t trust me?” Few things had ever been as obvious and it merited no response. “Have I actually done anything, besides watch you from the rafters?”

No, this horribly off-script, ludicrous even. “So you admit you were spying on me in the Great Hall?” Marceline nodded, not even trying to appear innocent.  _ Yet nor do you look proud.  _ What was going on?

“What’s wrong with keeping an eye on things?” It sounded like a genuine question, as if Marceline were asking about something entirely inconsequential and not loaded with the potential to turn into a trap. Into the argument this was destined to be.

Instead, Bonnibel redirected the conversation, back into something she could control. Into demanding Marceline explain herself, as was the natural order of things. “What are you doing, Marceline?”

Marceline sighed the exact same sigh Bonnibel gave when her patience was being tried, when some dignitary was insulting her by considering some great gift or favor to be trivial. When her good graces were being overlooked. And then a different smile emerged, this one lop-sided and mercurial. Still off-script, but not off-brand. It would do for now. “Bon,” she began, her voice affectionate, “you’ve been working since I went to bed this morning. I’m gonna guess you’re hungry and that you haven’t eaten. I can tell you’re tired.” Her grey hand came up, cupping the younger woman’s cheek. Now her gaze softened as well. “You’ve got a mondo-long night ahead, and an even mega mondo-long day tomorrow. Come on, BonBon. Chill. It’s just me.”

_ It’s just me.  _ Those were rang in Bonnibel’s mind, first as an alarm bell, then with the musical inflection only Marceline could possess. Finally she sighed, her hand coming up to rest on the grey cool one. “...I’m sorry, Marcy.” She was, too, that was the odd part.

Marceline gave her a soft kiss, and Bonnibel allowed herself to be led to her side of the bed. With the grace befitting her station she sat, reclining against the headboard while her companion returned to fetch her drink and tray. Yes, this was still entirely off-script but at least it was far more like the Marceline she knew and loved than the composed doppelganger that had been laying on her half of the bed moments before. She could work with this. “Chillax, Bon. You were expecting a fight. I get it. Kind of the same thing we’ve been doing for…” Rather than give a sensible number she blew a short raspberry, which Bonnibel supposed, or rather hoped, was an indicator that her queen was just as tired of the spectacle as she was.

_ Is this your way of apologizing?,  _ she thought sourly as she graciously accepted her own goblet, freeing the onyx-haired woman to lay the steel tray - now sans dome - in her lap. She didn’t ask though, not because she felt the question unfair but because it was rare for Marceline to put in this much forethought into anything that didn’t involve her music. Morbidly curious, she wanted to see where this was going. “Then what is this? A truce?”

The vampire bit back a laugh before returning to her proper place at Bonnibel’s side, hooking her fang into the red sweet wine. Strangely, she saw fit to swallow before speaking. A pleasant departure from her typical lack of table manners. “Eh. More like… I’d rather talk and not have you go into this bulldonk with janked up nerves.” She glanced down, then back to the younger woman. “Bon, come on. I made you a chocolate tart. Eat, alright? You’ll need the extra sugar. This biz always makes you tired and cray-cray.”

The concern was what broke her. Marceline did exactly what she wanted to do and nothing more. To go through the trouble of making Bonnibel a chocolate tart herself, of carefully dressing it with confectioners sugar, of including fresh berries she didn’t see fit to drain the delicious red from first?  _ This took time and planning. She’s serious. Very well.  _ Though the fight didn’t leave her the candy scientist did put her mental weaponry aside, still within grabbing distance but not at-the-ready. More than one monarch had met their downfall by letting their guard down and falling for false modesty, but by the same stretch more than one monarch had met their downfall by ignoring sincere gestures of goodwill, shattering valuable alliances before they could be forged.  _ And Marcy is the greatest ally I could ever hope for.  _ “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

The silence they ate in was comfortable, so much so that Bonnibel didn’t realize she had taken her lover’s hand, lacing their fingers as she sipped and nibbled, as Marceline drained the precious red from her bowl of rose petals and her own goblet of wine. Which, given their stark differences in physiology, made it much easier for her to talk than the younger royal. Fancy that. “I know what you came in here to say, Bon.”

“Oh?” Bonnibel watched her carefully, but decided to allow this train of thought. At best, the pair may be able to reach an accord this year. At worst, perhaps she would find a way to snare the vampire with her own beautiful words.

Marceline set her goblet and bowl aside. The rest of her meal would have to wait. “We do this every year, huh?”

That was an understatement.  _ Do you mean you stalk my potential suitors, maiming them to fulfill your compulsions? Yes. You do that every year.  _ But if Marceline was willing to discuss this like an adult, who was Bonnibel to discourage her with cold hard facts? That would be mean. “I suppose we do. I implore you not to follow my suitors back to their kingdoms, or bring them harm. In fact, I advise you to just stay home, to let them come and go in peace, but every year…” The princess sighed, stoppering her own flowing tirade. Was it unwarranted? Absolutely not. But it wasn't particularly helpful at the moment. Maybe the next moment would prove differently.

When Bonnibel turned to look at her courtier, the only woman she could or would ever trust was frowning, not in irritation or anger, but in consternation. However, if the pink-haired woman was hoping for an agreement, or for her to acquiesce to any of those requests, her dreams were quickly dashed. “Can’t help it, Bon, you know that.”

_ So you always say.  _ But she could be civil. “I understand you have no control over your compulsion to defend me against potential romantic rivals, but you do have the ability to simply stay home and-”

“Pretend it’s not happening?” Something about the way she said that, something about the way the question lacked sarcasm or acridity, stopped Bonnibel. She decided to forgo her normal comments about how much she hated being interrupted, just this one time, less out of mercy and more because this was the first time in decades the couple were having a civil conversation about Princess Day, and what it required of the candy golem. The greater good and all that.

When Marceline reached for the princess’s now-empty plate Bonnibel passed it to her, smiling her appreciation for the meal. The demon was right. She felt better with the increased sugar intake. “In a word, yes, Marceline. This event is unavoidable, and I don’t like entertaining a gaggle of suitors any more than you do. It’s trite, it’s stressful, and it’s quite frankly a pointless waste of my valuable time.”

“Then why do it?”

_ Is this curiosity?  _ Where was the anger?  _ What are you up to?  _ Bonnibel would have to tread carefully. At least until she knew what it was exactly her best friend’s goal was. She wasn’t attempting to distract the younger woman into missing her opportunity to greet her guests, as made evident by her providing a nourishing meal to sustain her through the rest of the evening. She wasn’t trying to convince the younger monarch to abandon those suitors whom she loathed to her very core, at least just yet. She wasn’t whining, nor was she throwing a tantrum. There was no aggression of which to speak. It should have been a welcomed change of pace, yet the princess could not shake the feeling that there was an ulterior motive, something not quite sinister, but certainly disruptive to her plans.  _ You can change your modus operandi, but no one changes their signature behaviors.  _

While Marceline was only a fellow dignitary in the strictest sense she still warranted every caution the candy golem afforded an opposing force, for if nothing else the demon knew her better than anyone, quite possibly including herself. She did not share her princess’s manipulative tendencies, but then she didn’t need to; in the right circumstances Marceline was utterly charming and witty, charismatic even. It made her dangerous. Even if only in the strictest sense.  _ Yet how can I pass up an opportunity to soothe her temper and assure a flawless gala?  _ “I entertain the suitors for the same reason I engage in mind-numbing conversation with my fellow princesses, Marcy. It builds and maintains good will, it allows me to forge treaties and modify existing ones in my favor, and because to deny delegates even a cursory attempt to win my hand when I am in attendance of Princess Day is a violation of inter-kingdom law.”

That made perfect sense, so much so that Marceline had no choice but to disregard it entirely as unpleasant. “So… what? All princesses are required to let themselves get all doted over by poor saps who don’t know better?”

There were two parts to that question: the words and the way the words were asked. To ignore one would be to miss the point of the question in its entirety, and while it could prove amusing to let the queen unravel her own argument her unusually calm demeanor deserved to be rewarded. Yet there was a trap here, an unasked question that begged for attention before it grew out of control into an Assumption. It would be ugly either way, but better to nip it in the bud. “All eligible princesses, yes. All monarchs who have come of age and lack a romantic entanglement are mandated to let one another attempt to remedy that situation. To do so otherwise would not only be a grave insult to ally kingdoms but leads to too many questions, such as why anyone in their right minds would jeopardize both their good standing and the opportunity to defend their crown but forging a marriage pact.”

“Mm.” 

It was a non-committal noise, signifying that either Marceline wasn’t listening at all or had been listening intently and mulling over what that meant in the context of whatever her goal actually was. As she slid herself between Bonnibel and the headboard the younger woman decided to press her point. “I know what you’re thinking, Marcy.” This time her voice softened, losing its ‘matter of fact’ edge in favor of something understanding, something close to compassion. As close as she ever got anyway.

“What am I thinkin’, Bon?” Her voice was oddly calm as cool hands gingerly brushed aside pink hair from Bonnibel’s shoulder, oddly calm in that it didn’t seem as though she was forcing herself, her acrimony, under control. In fact it seemed to be missing entirely. Those same hands slid under her ,magenta dress, eliciting a delightful shiver as they set to work. This, at least, was some semblance of normalcy. Marceline would take any opportunity presented to her to touch her lover, drawn to her warmth and soft skin and the reassurance only physical contact could provide. Who was Bonnibel to argue? Not when those fingers, made strong from centuries of Marceline’s dedication to string instruments and her craft, were kneading so expertly at her taut muscles, coaxing her neck and shoulders to release their tension.

“You’re considering the point that I’m  _ not  _ an eligible princess.”

A wry smirk kissed her ear. “You say that like I’m keeping you from something fun,” she purred. As if to drive the point home she trailed those kisses under her ear, down her neck, halting just over the point where her shoulder and neck met. “Does it still ache, BonBon?” Bonnibel flushed an interesting shade of red when cold lips kissed a very specific point on that junction, and against her wishes the princess shivered, though whether from her bite mark being teased or the low, husky way Marceline had inquired about it she wasn’t sure. 

Those-  _ so very very talented wonderful amazing  _ -hands slowly slid back out of the candy woman’s dress, down her back, circling her waist. Bonnibel allowed herself to be held against her lover, reminding herself en loop that she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this. Not right now, anyway. Definitely later.  _ Is this your plan, Marcy? Seduce me so that I miss the ceremony?  _ She almost called the vampire out on it, almost accused her, but stopped. Stopped, because around her waist were where those strong arms she loved stayed, hands never venturing south, even as the singer’s chin came to rest on the shorter woman’s shoulder, tantalizing close to the bite mark she had left mere days before to indicate the princess as spoken for. Claimed.

_ Behave.  _ Was Bonnibel warning herself or Marceline? She decided on the latter, but curiosity got the better of her.  _ Where are you going with this?  _ “Marceline,” she sighed, “may I remind you that if you would only consent to coming public with our relationship you would be able to court me freely, and there would be no more need for this facade.” Another hum of acknowledgement. She pressed. “You are a recognized queen, and the Nightosphere is legally considered an extension of Ooo for all intents and purposes-”

Marceline chuckled darkly. “Pretty sure the only thing I’m fit to rule is your-”

The flush deepened. “Marceline, don’t be distasteful.”

“But I’m so good at it. Wouldn’t you agree?,” she asked innocently. As if Marceline Abadeer could ever be innocent of anything.

_ I should push her off before this escalates.  _ Lot of ‘shoulds’ going around this evening. Instead Bonnibel leaned against her queen, enjoying the feeling of safety only her strong embrace could provide. Her warm hand came up to cup the exposed cool cheek, a gesture of affection she hadn’t intended but didn’t retract. This was a conversation the couple had been having more often as of late: Marceline’s reluctance to let the rest of Ooo know that Bonnibel Bubblegum was spoken for, an odd quirk for a woman who violently disposed of anyone who could possibly be considered, even at a stretch, a romantic rival. “I understand your reluctance-”

“Just not who I am, Bon.” And that was odd, too, how very calm she was being about all of this, almost tranquil. “If I come forward like that peeps are gonna start expecting me to be way more royal than I ever want to be. Just not in me. If I came forward like that it’s gotta be as me, and I’m not a queen. Not like that anyway, and no way I’m gonna put on daddy’s amulet and take over the Nightosphere. Gross. Not all about that buzz. Got you, got my jams, what else do I need?”

_ A purpose that doesn’t involve pranks? To grow up? _

“What was that, BonBon?”

_ Butterbrittle, was that out loud? _

“Grow up, huh?”

_ Figs.  _ Well, no sense denying it now. “I think that if you just gave it an attempt-”

Marceline pulled away and Bonnibel turned, expecting outrage or some other form of enmity. Instead she saw only a sad, knowing smile, one resigned to some fate even the princess seemed ignorant of. “I’ll never be enough for you, will I, Bon? Not as I am. I’ll never be perfect, so-”

Enough. “I never said you had to be perfect!”  _ Stop. Breathe, Bonnibel. Focus.  _ “I-”

“Just need me to fit in your world.” 

It was her eyes that gave her away, those garnet eyes Bonnibel loved. The smile was sad, the posture was resigned. But her eyes? Those were filled with only one emotion: disappointment. And it stung.  _ Why does it sting?  _ But she was right, glob it, she knew she was.  _ If Marceline could just get over herself- _

“Now I need to get over myself?”

What was this with Bonnibel and rambling her private thoughts out loud for the world to hear and judge? Deep down she knew Marceline didn’t deserve her pointy, pointy words. If anything she had been positively civil; treating her to a homemade dinner, rubbing out her stiff muscles, asking rather than assuming despite how emotionally charged Princess Day always was for the couple, expressing concern for her health and well-being. Yet Bonnibel had been prepared for a fight, and the routine - or at least its spectre - wouldn’t let her abandon her half of the script. It was unfair, it was cruel, but it was true. There was such a simple solution, if only- “Marceline,” she began, every syllable tight and controlled, “please understand my position.” She had been expecting an interruption, had been preparing for it. Instead Marceline only looked on, impassive. This was just too strange, but Bonnibel was in too deep now. She had to finish what she began. “You’ve been quite clear that this isn’t your world and that you don’t have it in you to pretend otherwise, and so you’re doing nothing but torturing yourself. You spy on the festivities, stalk my potential suitors despite knowing they stand no chance of winning my heart, maim them, then grovel for forgiveness because of what your demonic compulsions force you to do when confronted with a threat. Please, I’m imploring you. Break the cycle. Go back to your tree house, spend the next couple of days relaxing-”  _ or, really, anything else  _ “-and then we can spend the weekend together. Just us.”

“Just us,” Marceline parroted without emotion. Not quite a deadpan, not quite disbelieving. An echo and nothing more.

An unfamiliar twinge made itself known in Bonnibel’s chest, where she knew her heart must be. Like a good scientist, she ignored it. She did, however, allow herself the indulgence of reaching up to cup her lover’s cheek. Marceline’s eyes slid shut as she nuzzled the warm hand and the princess couldn’t help her own affectionate smile.  _ Cute.  _ “I don’t like doing it either, Marcy. You’re my girlfriend, and I want no other.” At the word ‘girlfriend’ Marceline opened her eyes, but neither moved away nor pulled herself back from the hand. “I do what is only strictly required of me, and no more.”  _ Besides, how could anyone possibly compete with you?  _ “You are my only true equal. You know that, don’t you?,” she asked, voice syrupy sweet.

It worked. Marceline exhaled, closing her eyes as she pulled back. Both monarchs found themselves missing the contact, but neither dare say anything. “Yeah, Bon. I know.”

“Good girl.” Bonnibel granted her a kiss to her grey forehead before standing. Marceline moved to follow, quite probably to go find a proper place in the rafters where she could identify which delegates would unwittingly make themselves her enemies. That twinge in her chest made itself known once more, but regrettably the princess had a situation to resolve before she could pay it any mind. “I’m sorry you find the Princess Day ball distressing, Marcy. I really am. It is an unfortunate necessity that neither you nor I enjoy. It is, however, only one day a year so I implore you once again, control yourself.”

“Or you’ll do it for me?,” she asked with a mischievous grin.

“If that’s what it takes,” Bonnibel mumbled under her breath. Judging by Marceline’s snicker, she heard. “Now. I’m going to welcome the guests who will be arriving this evening and assure that everything is in place.” Despite the tension in her voice she allowed herself to be pulled into the vampire’s arms, returning her embrace. It dulled most of the animus in her voice. The kiss took care of the rest. “This is the way things must be, but it will be over soon. I’ll see you soon, little bat.” With one last smile, one last reassuring hug, one last kiss Bonnibel pulled away, knowing that at the very least she could trust Marceline to return home, at least for the evening, or at least wait for her princess in her bed to help relieve the rest of her tension. Tomorrow may be a different story-  _ but at least tonight things will go smoothly. _

Marceline watched Bonnibel leave the room, heard her retreating footsteps despite the sound-dampening door and walls, long after the princess considered the situation resolved. Her head tilted to the side as she weighed the candied words against her own heart, trying to decide whose cause was more just. And then she chuckled, a mirthless thing that lacked actual humor.  _ Break the cycle, huh?  _ With a jolly whistle Marceline floated to her nightstand, but rather than retrieve her bass or her boots she instead lifted her book, flipping it open to the piece of parchment it shielded from prying eyes. As the book was returned to the nightstand the parchment was plucked free. It was folded neatly, sealed with the unmistakable crest Princess Bubblegum called her own. Garnet eyes pinned as she read its contents for the hundredth or perhaps thousandth time - who was she to keep count of her own shenanigans? - before folding it with great care, sliding it up her sleeve. She had work to do, the greatest prank of her eternal life. It was devious. It was bittersweet. It was a labor of love.

“Game on, Bonnie.”


End file.
